


To the dearest heart

by Grain_Crain



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 18:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15149570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grain_Crain/pseuds/Grain_Crain
Summary: His letter to an old lover.





	To the dearest heart

To the dearest heart of mine.

I hope this letter is safely delivered in your hand before the first solstice of winter hits Hereford. I can already see you frowning at me for worrying about 'trivial things,' but you can’t deny that the cold snap of a blizzard takes its toll on your sight and joints. Please take pity on me, my love, for not being able to see the delicate snow melting on your moustache. You called me an immature half-man for licking off the icy flakes on your head. Then is it really my fault for being born taller than you? I guess that is one advantage to being French. (I think this is where the younger ones would put ‘winky-face,’ to reduce the rude nature of my teasing. Banter is always better perceived orally, but given the circumstance, written form will have to do.)

Pardon my lengthy prelude. As much as you prefer efficiency over eloquence, you should also know that I love my words ‘fancy,’ as you call it. I pray the content of this envelope is intact, because it should contain something that holds important meaning to us. An object that you disregarded as the epitome of materialistic fantasy. You couldn't fool me though - I saw you sneakily glancing at Madam Bosak’s left hand. I had to hold my laughter when you squeezed my fingers and commented on my hand injury. Your subtlety wasn't my cup of tea at first, but now it’s the part of you that I miss the most. 

So please, excuse my decision to enclose a golden ring in this letter. Yes, love should be tender and slow, burning gradually till it simmers. I am aware of the nature of this proposal - hasty, informal and tactless. I have never regretted being in the gendarmerie until this moment. The thought of not being able to confess my eternal devotion to you is unbearably painful. I know that a few pages of paper and piece of metal cannot hold the full meaning of our love, so consider this message a summary of my oath. Hold onto it, because there will be a surprise awaiting for us by the time I return to your arms. Since you wear your working clothes almost always, I bet this golden ring will do good for you. After all, gold is the least reactive metal out there and it should withstand your sweaty hands under those rubber gloves.

Michael Baker, my solace, my wise king, my treasure. You have honoured me by giving me the privilege to be your partner and allowing me to share my soul with you. Hold my-

* * *

 

“Where is the other half?” Mike grips the torn and wrinkled paper. The stains could be anything, but he doesn’t dare to guess which liquid would dye the paper in such deep brown.

“Baker, I’m so sorry.”

"Must be his carelessness. That big oaf always loved his coffee a tad bit too much.” He ignores the apology and brings the letter close to his nose, expecting to detect the blend of dark roast that the old French used to drink.

“Mike, he’s dead.” A few gasp at Alexsandr for addressing the elephant in the room. No one moves a muscle while Mike stands still as if he is oblivious to what he has just heard.

“The left arm was the only thing we could bring of him. We had to pry the paper from his hand.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Where is the autopsy document to prove that?” Mike slowly approaches his Russian comrade, his voice calm despite the accusatory question.

“He was a good man.” Alex reciprocates similar demeanor but the unnatural tranquility between the two is obvious to all.

“Amigo, he’s gone to a better place.” Just as Vicente reaches his hand out to show condolence, Mike immediately pushes him away with harsh force. The Brit reads the letter again, scanning and skimming every bit of cursive and scowls at the unfinished sentence. His entire face twitches along with his eyes as they dart from left to right. The erratic movement eventually becomes a shake of denial, but the truth is painfully evident when he recognises the stain. Even a field recruit can tell the difference between dried coffee and blood.

“Get out.” Most understand that Mike’s order is more of a plea. His close friends push some of the compassionate young operators out of the room and stand by the closed door of grieving man’s office. At first, they hear soft clink of metal dropping on the wooden floor and inaudible mumble.

“No.” That’s the first word that is loud enough to be heard, then a sudden crack. Vicente fears that Mike is breaking himself but Alex whispers that it could merely be a chair.

“NO!” This time, a scream and a crash, possibly from a shattering window. Gustave demands to be let in but Alex drags the medic away. Vicente is left alone, listening to the mixture of self-destruction and violent thrashing of everything that can be rent to pieces. Thuds and screeches shake the door that Vicente is leaning on, wavering his determination to not interfere. The scream becomes a howl, escalates into a guttural screech, then all of a sudden, the unsettling cacophony halts. The suffocating silence contrasts the chaotic commotion.

Alarmed by the abruptness, Vicente swings the door open and sees the room absolutely trashed, with sprawled parts of snapped desks and dismantled bookshelves. Mike is kneeling in the middle of glass shards, not caring that the sharp edges are digging into his legs. His hands are curled into fists and when he releases his grip, the ring rolls out amidst wood splinters and drops of blood.

“Are you finished?” Vicente steps toward the empty shell of a man, wincing at the crunches of  debris under his feet.

“Yes.” Mike stares at the ring mottled with red, picks it up again and twirls it around his thumb.

“Finished.” He slips out a paper, the only clean and in-tact object in the office. A resignation form.

“You can’t be serious.” Vicente reads over. The handwriting is quite messy and yet coherent. It has all of the details that needs to be filled in except one part near to the end.

“Lethal injury? What do you-" Before he could finish the sentence, Vicente notices a stream of blood trickling down on Mike’s wrist.

“I'm leaving.” Mike closes his eyes. A lot of things are a blur to him as his consciousness fades away. The panicked shout for help and busy rustles are some distant background noises. When he pushes his heavy eyelids open, he can see the massive ring of fellow operators gathering in concern. The SAS squad are also there. James manages to squeeze past the crowd and hold Mike’s stiff hand, babbling swear words and so many other questions that Mike hasn't got the strength to answer. The cut that he has inflicted on his vein isn’t too deep, but it may be a good enough defect for the higher-ups to expel him from the service. Some people may say how Mike isn’t the type to injure himself out of spite, but he had to do it. It’s a way for him to leave the military before he becomes a vengeful geezer, making foolish promise to kill off every terrorists in the world. They better kick him out of this place before he turns into a monster. There isn’t much to do for an old man who has just lost the last and precious hope in his life.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've written a fic where I kinda guess what an op would sound like when they write a letter. I don't know why they always end up being sad, but I wanna write a happy one next time ;_;
> 
> I thank aesos-caliber for the proofread!!!!!! She helped me a lot :D


End file.
